


aerosol in our lungs

by kinglychan (avius)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: 96 and 95 have graduated, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Art, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone is Queer, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, are mingyu’s metaphorical parents, chan and seokmin and hao are lit best friends bc i love them, ill add as i go but, jihancheol, minghao uses they/them pronouns, nonbinary Minghao, street art
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-13 15:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14115822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avius/pseuds/kinglychan
Summary: minghao is a famous street artist, who’s fallen victim to a credit leech. mingyu is an up and coming poet street artist, inspired by hao’s art, who develops a trend for often working right next to them to get noticed. neither know they’re actually in the same art class. and that they hate eachother.





	1. disrespectful, dangerous or illegal

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii this was going to be a twitter au but i like writing too much so, here this is i guess. hopefully i’ll commit to this - don’t worry i’m still working on no autocorrect. 
> 
> also i dedicate any and all joshua i write in this fic to my wonderful twitter parent emerson (@yesjinnie here and @actuallyshua on twt) bc they are the reason i came back to writing fanfic and i love them uwu

The force with which he flung himself onto the tattered couch was calculated; enough to emit a creak loud enough to alert the older of his presence but just not enough to break the dated frame. At this point, it was practically a family heirloom to the owner, and Mingyu’s parent, Seungcheol. (“Parental figure,” Cheol would reprimand - preceding Mingyu’s selective deafness to protests that he didn’t have any grey hairs yet.)

“Mingyu,” came the reply from the kitchen and, despite the exasperated tone, it didn’t stop him from exhaling loudly once more.

“There is no Mingyu here,” apparently-not-Mingyu replied, the dirt from his heavy duty combat boots scuffing the opposite arm of the couch as he squirmed to get comfortable, “Only a shell of a man!”

“I’m not even surprised,” Cheol grumbled, voice approaching. Mingyu draped the back of his hand against eyes, sighing again for dramatic emphasis. His dramatic pose only last three seconds until Cheol delivered a sharp elbow to the centre of his stomach. “Feet off.”

He spluttered, a pile of limbs and grunts, until he landed in a heap on the wooden floor. As a reprimand for the noise, Cheol threw the bag of clattering cans down onto his stomach, momentarily winding him.

“Fucking ow,” Mingyu whined. Cheol shushed him.

“Don't make me out to be the unreasonable one; it’s 1am and I’m pretty sure I’m not the one waltzing into your house,” Cheol snapped, the couch groaning once more as he sat. His voice wasn’t tinted with any hint of sleep however which, instead of alleviating Mingyu’s guilt, made him feel worse for the keeping the older boy up with his expected arrival. “Seriously, Gyu, this is getting out of your control.”

Mingyu hated that tone, as much as he had grown to expect it. It often found itself to be the soundtrack to many 1am meetings like this. In Mingyu’s defence, in a whirlwind of tearful farewells and giddy high of graduating high school, Cheol had granted him full permission to visit his new share house anytime. In Cheol’s defence, at the time over a year ago, he didn’t know he would be moving into an small house two blocks away from Mingyu’s parents’ home. Mingyu’s actual parents’ home.

“Do your actual parents know you never stopped?” but the tone didn’t waver. Mingyu felt a vague panic rise in his chest, shaking it away as he shook his head.

“They don’t know a lot of things,” he snorted almost bitterly. “It’s not like I train jump or anything,” he protested, pushing himself backwards up to the couch. His legs, far too long, stretched out straight onto the coffee table as he settled next to Cheol.

Seungcheol scoffed, before sipping again from his tea as if to say ‘try harder’.

“Look, I know my limits. I’m not a rookie anymore.”

Cheol struggled to argue with that - with the growth of Mingyu’s portfolio, his following and reputation had grown too - but he did anyway. “You’re seventeen.”

It was Mingyu’s turn to scoff. “You’re nineteen and already living with your two boyfriends.”

Cheol’s head swivelled, unimpressed glare overriding his tired eyes. Mingyu backtracked.

“Look, it’s not like I’m doing anything disrespectful, dangerous or illegal,” he pleaded, very much satisfied with his use of Cheol’s main philosophies.

Cheol laughed then, the tea in his mouth sloshing a little. “You’re vandalising property that is not yours, scaling high buildings and running through alleyways, and trying not to get caught by the cops,” he counted on his fingers, causing Mingyu to laugh a little. “Gyu. You are literally doing all three at once.”

Mingyu shyly shrugged and twisted his gaze to make eye contact with him. Cheol’s gaze was no longer intense with discipline, and more intense with concern. They held it for a moment, and Mingyu saw everything; Cheol’s concern, love, pride, acceptance.

“So why the dramatics?” Cheol inquired with another sigh and Mingyu knew he was off the hook.

“The 8th Can did another work - a huge realism mural up on the corner of Edward and 4th,” he stated, as if it was a completely valid reason. Cheol reflected that it sort of was, as Mingyu’s history with the other artist was beyond small. “Poetry with it too.”

“I couldn’t even get a good shot of it,” he whined, tone childish as he slouched against Cheol’s shoulder. “And I can’t just go up in the morning, like, what if people get sus?”

Cheol shrugged him off and retreated to the kitchen. “Did you do another work too?”

Mingyu’s pause was enough for Cheol to chuckle.

“Maybe,” came the quiet reply from the tuft of hair peeking over the top of the back of the couch visible from the kitchen. Cheol waited for the rest to drop. “Yeah, I did okay? And The 8th Can still hasn’t mentioned it! I’ve done a work next to eight out of their nine works this month alone!”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. Mingyu’s regular toddlery tantrum barely phased him anymore. Now that was a thought to grimace at.

“Gyu,” his tone was warning again, but before he could scold his not-child, a door in the hallway opened and closed. Mingyu lifted his downtrodden head and greeted a sleepy Joshua with a hopeful smile.

Shua, brown hair tousled from sleep and too-large sweater bundled into sweater paws, chuckled softly at the sight. He shuffled closer to the couch, propping himself against the back of it, his long fingers finding purchase in Mingyu’s hair. Their presence was warm and soothing, and Mingyu almost forgot why the steadily unraveling knots of anxiety in his gut were there in the first place.

“What’s this oversized puppy doing on my couch, huh?” he grinned softly down at Mingyu, although the question was directed at his boyfriend in the kitchen. Mingyu heard Cheol hum softly and shuffle out to join the pair. Mingyu had a soft spot for Joshua, because everyone had a soft spot for Joshua. He’d never been as close to him, or Jeonghan for that matter, as he had been with Cheol when the trio were still at school, but his comforting presence was a beacon of glowing light for literally anyone within a 10km radius of the young man.

“Hey, you’re my boyfriend,” Cheol quipped with no real venom whatsoever. His tea had been replaced with two mugs of hot chocolate, so he merely leant down in Joshua’s direction to receive his desired affection.

“You’ve never one to get jealous,” Joshua replied snarkily, but he slipped his arms around the other’s waist and rubbed his back in slow circles regardless.

“But babe, he’s practically my son,” Seungcheol groaned, and Mingyu snorted from his (almost voyeuristic) place on the couch at the contradiction that Joshua had managed to coerce out of the man.

“Our son, Seungie,” Shua said sweetly, returning one hand to pat Mingyu on the head. He lifted his chin to peck Cheol’s reddening cheeks and took Cheol’s offered hot chocolate. Mingyu audibly gagged. Seungcheol shut him up by handing over the other mug.

“Hannie’s going to wake up just to protest at the idea of us having children,” Shua chuckled, tucking his head onto Cheol’s chest in laughter. Mingyu was caught between throwing up and cooing.

Cheol bent his neck to press a kiss to Shua’s temple, murmuring against his skin, “Impossible, he didn’t wake up when Seokmin set the kitchen on fire.” They laughed, as one being, and Mingyu felt some sort of buzz expand from his gut.

On instinct, his thoughts jumped to the last time he’d seen his mother’s face, two nights ago, the corners of her lips settling low on her face, like his mere existence was painful enough, like his brokenness was caused by a toddler tantrum years ago rather than their own inflicted bigotry. He’d mentioned Cheol once, his favourite year-tenner at the time, rather too excitedly over dinner. That the older boy was affectionate and welcoming and dorky and calming, that they’d met in the music rooms during lunch, that he’d laughed at school for the first time since starting there (three weeks but still), that the older had dragged him to a large cluster of boys around two benches on one of the lawns the very next day, that they’d invited him to join choir and volleyball and FTV. The Kims weren’t overly conservative, just sheltering and protective, suffocating Mingyu with their anxiety. Not only did this cause a drive for rebellion in Mingyu, but also anxiety of his own. This only perpetuated the overbearingness, so he found himself three dads and a street art obsession as some sort of beneficial escapism.

“Too much love in this goddamn house,” he spat with no bite, and Shua just nuzzled further into Seungcheol’s chest. As a ache spread throughout his own, Mingyu reconciled with himself, and accepted it as one of longing and not spite. Shua noticed the gentle hum from Mingyu’s lips and maneuvered out of Seungcheol’s arms to join the younger on the couch.

“Seriously, what’s up kiddo?” he said as he sat, tucking his legs underneath himself and burrowing further into his jumper. Cheol pecked his head before returning to remake the needed third cup of chocolate. “I need my heatpack of a boyfriend back, the other one is far too cooling and my equilibrium was thrown.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Cheol stage whispered from where he stood in front of the low humming microwave. Joshua just rolled his eyes and mouthed “dramatic” to Mingyu.

“I’m just, going through it I guess,” he muttered into his mug, suddenly feeling a little pathetic under the attention he had fought for moments ago. Cheol snorted from the kitchen as a clink of spoon against mug grew louder.

“Shua, he’s going out every night again,” Cheol said, as if the two were actually his parents.

Joshua rolled his eyes again. “Duh,” he sighed, as if that was common knowledge. Seungcheol and Mingyu shared a very perplexed look before staring at the third boy incredulously. “How else did you think those leftovers found themselves on your bedroom windowsill? I’ve been dropping them off before my shifts at the hospital.”

Cheol exclaimed “You what now?” at the same Mingyu cried “That was you?”

Joshua raised his jumper covered hands in defense. “Calm down you two, sleeping beauty still needs his rest.” The boys quietened but their faces remained unchanged. Joshua however, backtracked and snorted, “Wait, Gyu, did you really think Seungie gave you those?”

Ever since he had stayed the night after a late expedition of scouting new places for works, about a month ago, tupperware containers had been piled outside his first story bedroom window when he woke up. He’d eat them gratefully in the morning, as he often forgot dinner on nights of exploring, washed them and silently return them to his friends’ house the next time he visited assuming that Seungcheol was too prideful to admit to the good deed.

Seungcheol gave the teen no time to reply. “He’s where my leftovers have been going? I was saving them for uni each night and they kept disappearing the next day!” Seungcheol wasn’t mad, just incredulous; it was practically impossible for him to get properly mad at Joshua (a fact which Shua definitely used to his advantage).

“I called Jeonghan fat for eating two portions,” Cheol chuckled, hitting his boyfriend on the shoulder. Mingyu’s eyes bulged, Jeonghan was hilarious and supportive but was scary as fuck, and both men just laughed in response. “Don’t worry Gyu, he called me a whore and we continued making out whilst giggling.”

Before Mingyu could respond, Joshua leapt back into the interrogation. “Seungie may have a problem with the street art but you clearly don’t, so why are you here getting counseling from your dads? Gay troubles?”

Mingyu sighed, dropping his head back. The dating pair exchanged a look. “Mightn’t even be gay troubles. I dunno if they’re a dude. Either way, I’m fucking screwed.”

“So it’s not just an artist admiration thing?” Seungcheol asked with a smirk, and Mingyu’s neck snapped back up.

“I mean, I guess I’ve kinda fallen for their mind,” he shrugs, and Joshua coos. The sight is apparently soft - sweater paws holding a mug with billowing steam, eyes gentle and paternal, hair messy and fluffy - because Seungcheol lifts a finger to Mingyu’s face to drain in the sight of his boyfriend before pecking his lips.

“It’s late,” Shua says once Cheol is satisfied, round cheeks tinted rose.

Mingyu doesn’t want to think what will occur between now and Joshua’s work in a few hours. They both offer him to stay on the spare mattress in the living room, but the sight of Seungcheol biting his lip was discouragement enough. He bid them both farewell, heavy duffel clanging as he swung it over his shoulder. A few takeaway containers were forced into his hands and his shoulders were wrapped up in two soft bear hugs. He loved it. The overwhelming, sight blurring, gut fuzzing sense of home that flooded the floorboards of this old house. Nonetheless, with a twang of a misplaced hurt settling somewhere near his knees, Mingyu bid farewell and trudged across the porch and out onto the street.

Darkness enveloped him, the patterned greetings of golden street lights providing him with ailment but not really comfort, as he wove his way back to his empty room.


	2. freesia yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we meet minghao, an angst filled gay (because aren't we all), and chan, a ray of sunshine who has a crush on chwe vernon (because don't we all).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im falling deeply in love with this fic so expect a lot of updates over the next two weeks of my holidays. also wow thankyou for the huge response, im glad you guys love it as much as i do!

They were so fucking cold. The threadbare hoodie was wrapped tight against their shivering bones; the streets as empty as their fleece. Minghao’s shoulder ached, the heavy duffel weighing their weary body. It was late, too late for them to still be wandering the city, but they accepted this reality with a sigh. Despite the exhaustion, the adrenaline in their heart made everything worth it. This was what Hao breathed for; their finger on the pulse of the city and on the nozzle of a spray can, their heart about to burst out of their chest and also lain bare on an insignificant cinder block wall in a jungle of concrete. The thrill wasn't based on adrenaline, or challenge, or a peacock's show of skill; for Minghao, nothing felt as right as when they watched their grey matter gradually consume grey infrastructure. In a world of grey-zone feelings, Minghao's lungs never breathed easier than when they created.

Their latest piece was huge. Three and a half hours of onsite work (four additional of planning) that would take many other local street artists twice the time. Rich and brimming with tone, the hyperrealism monochromatic sections were painstaking and fragile, causing Hao’s fingers to ache and eyes to blur. But throw in the accents of colour (yellow this time around) and the mural of a figure on a bench came to life. Minghao had to work a little earlier than usual - the place was further from their house than they were known to paint - so the walk back was longer but less lonely. They opened their phone in the darkness and set back easily into routine. They had switched to their professional twitter account and dropped a hint of their new work before leaving, so they switched back into their private account to vague tweet about how tired and cold they were. Minghao felt a twang of guilt, as they always did, which was easily diminished by reassuring that it wasn’t a double life, but more in the interest of self-protection.

It was approaching 2am as Hao rounded the corner and pulled out their keys. Minghao knew they probably could be soft footed as they climbed the stairs to the tiny apartment, but they couldn’t bring themself to care. Junhui, their flatmate, was either fast asleep or out partying still, the older having graduated from school only recently and fully enjoying university life. Minghao had moved out of their parent's home and into Jun’s flat as soon as the older had found a place. They were yet to complete their final year, but Minghao had had a falling out with their parents over various aspects of their life. Jun was more than willing, desperate even, to take them in - Minghao was responsible enough for the both of them.

The shoebox flat was clear of any snores, despite the late hour, so Minghao toed off their dirt covered converse and slid softly on their socks across the main living area. It was only the second day of the school year and yet they had two essays due by the end of the week already. Debating doing their work half-heartedly, Minghao made a boiling cup of rosewater tea and leafed through their class notes for modern history and psychology. They drained the cup relatively quickly, hand instinctively twisting the dark tan strap that hung worn on their wrist. In the silence, they felt instinctively habitual, as if Minghao’s bones were crafted only to be settled in this moment. They scribbled that poetic thought in one of the margins in barely legible scrawl before packing up their things and shuffling into their bedroom. As their long bangs draped over closed eyes, their mind briefly registered that their first art class of the year was tomorrow.

Things were going to be okay.

* * *

Chan’s smile was too blinding for the ungodly hour. Minghao grumbled into their takeaway cup of coffee, strongly brewed but sweetened, and braced themselves for the bone crushing hug. The pair always met on the corner by the one 7Eleven on the walk to their high school that smelled like toast - Chan said once that they should never pass it alone in case either of them were having a stroke and they couldn’t distinguish stroke-toast-smell from 7Eleven-toast-smell. They’d met there before school ever since. Minghao grinned at the memory.

“Hao!” Chan’s familiar voice cheered as he tucked himself under Minghao’s chin. They couldn’t help but chuckle, fondness for their closest friend bubbling from their chest.

“You’re cheery this morning, Channie,” Minghao laughed, pulling back and slinging an arm over the younger boy. The autumnal breeze was yet to pick up, so the pair walked under soft sunlight and clear blue skies. Minghao made a mental note to bring their proper camera tomorrow.

Chan just rolled his eyes, hitching his schoolbag higher on his shoulders and stealing the cup from Minghao’s grasp. Minghao was used to these antics, and despite a vague gnawing at their gut, the familiarity of it all warmed them. Maybe it was just the coffee.

“Saw your tweet last night,” Chan smiled, the hand that handed back Minghao’s coffee shaking their shoulder. “King of the Urban Canvas,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively as if that was the best compliment ever to be conceived.

“Thanks,” Minghao blushed only a little at the attention, and the visual art diary slipped in their arms. Lee Chan was sworn to secrecy, which apparently didn't stop him from bringing up the twitter escapades of the up and coming artist, The 8th Can. Minghao hadn't want anyone to know when it started out, but their best friend was far too clever for his age and for his unassuming smile. They had never underestimated Chan - not in the slightest - but just trusted him a little too much in the presence of their phone several months ago. Chan, alongside Jun, were the only two people aware of The 8th Can's genuine identity, which initially caused many sleepless nights. Now however, they just playfully shoved Chan off of the sidewalk and into the gutter. The younger muttered something about "no way to treat your manager" before changing the subject, sensing the other’s discomfort.

“Hey, finally have an art class?” Chan asked, and Minghao’s embarrassment dissipated into enthusiasm.

“Yes, oh my god, I’m literally bursting. Pray I don’t have Kim the Twat in my class again though.” At that, Chan rolled his eyes, the pair briefly ceasing conversation as they entered the school gates and navigating their way to Chan’s locker. Minghao leant against the wall of the narrow corridor, bag wedged between their knees, as Chan bent down to stuff his bag into his locker. For Minghao, routine equalled comfort. There was one routine, however, they would much prefer to break.

“Mingyu, right? He isn’t that bad,” Chan rolled his eyes, as he does, and Minghao’s head shot up from where it was leant back against the wall.

“Excuse you?” Minghao wasn’t mad, and Chan knew this, but Chan’s nonchalance settled uneasily in their gut. “He literally steals ideas and only fucks around in class.”

The notorious feud between Xu and Kim had endured their entire high schooling careers. The pair had been in the same art class - one of only two - for every year of their five years there, and found the other insufferable from day one. Minghao never fully understand why the other had somehow decided from their first class together to pin an odd vendetta on them, but it peeved them off to nerve’s end. The lanky boy would steal pens and paint, scribble on “spare paper” that he couldn’t be bothered to turn over to see important planning sketches, bring food into the studios and wait until everyone had shared their planning until he began thinking about his own projects. The worst of it, however, was his fucking mouth; smug grin pulled over pointy teeth, Kim the Twat’s mouth was never fucking shut. Minghao would get, on a good day, at least twelve snide comments about whatever they were working on, what they had worn to school that day, or literally any other perceived target the dull boy could think of. His behaviour wasn’t just irritating, it was rude, and also was blatantly ignored by the entire class, teachers included. Their luck was shit, and their patience thin, and one more year of art class with Kim, Minghao was certain, would break them.

Minghao was snapped out of brooding thought with the abrupt slam of Chan’s locker. “He isn’t that bad,” the boy repeated pointedly, only deepening Hao’s frown, and pulled on the elder's sleeve to get them to move. The pair expertly weaved through the crowd, years of practice and introverted tendencies in their favour as they weaved carefully to the senior’s corridor.

“Since when are you all buddy-buddy with Kim?” Minghao asked, head hung low to let the words drift over Chan’s shoulder. They tried not to let their spite drip into their words, but by the unimpressed glare Chan shot them as he pulled the taller through the crowds clearly indicated otherwise.

“Since he’s close with Boo Seungkwan,” Chan’s voice was pointed as they finally reached Minghao’s corridor, packed with loitering senior students. It was the first time this year they had seen this many people in the corridor, having arrived earlier on the previous two days, and suddenly they felt more uncomfortable at the premise of being here. Chan, ever the sensitive person he is, sensed this, and slid his hand from a tight wrench on their wrist to a comforting squeeze of their hand. Minghao breathed, and stepped into the throng of pupils, making a beeline for the metal rectangle labeled ‘423’. Minghao, keen to draw themselves away from the anxiety of the corridor, smirked to their friend wickedly.

“Since when do you hang out with Boo Seungkwan?” Minghao pried, only able to elicit a gentle shuffle of the feet. Minghao opened his locker, bumping shoulders with the owner of the locker next to theirs and crammed their satchel into the small space. They had art before break, so barely needed anything other than their languages notebook, laptop, stationery and portfolio. The boy beside them stilled but Minghao didn’t notice in favour of teasing Chan further.

“Since he’s best friends with Vernon,” Chan replied steadfast, determined to maintain his dignity. Hao feigned shock, and Chan wanted to die.

“Since when did Chwe Hansol become Vernon, huh?” Bingo. Hao had hit the jackpot. Chan spluttered as he emitted a pained whine. However, within seconds he stood back up straight and looked Minghao directly in the eyes.

“Since I got his number.”

Minghao squealed and grabbed his shoulders, shaking as vigorously as possible with their bags sandwiched between them. Chan’s laugh was full bodied, and painted Minghao’s mind with Freesia Yellow. But it was short-lived as he spluttered once more, arms dropping but grin still plastered across his cheeks stupidly. Minghao spun abruptly to pinpoint what had caught Chan’s gaze over their shoulder.

Kim Mingyu, one hand still on the padlock of locker ‘425’, smirked with his stupid pointed canines. “Hey Channie.”

Chan, blushing slightly at his reaction moments ago, just waved weakly in response. Kim just smiled wider.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word,” he promised with a wink, aura exuding sickly charm. 

“See you at lunch, Channie,” he bid farewell with a quick ruffle of the younger’s hair as he walked past. Minghao was about to firmly comment to their friend that they were the only one allowed to use the nickname ‘Channie’, when Kim turned back to the pair and winked again. 

“Can’t wait for art class, Xu.”

Things were not going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to yell @ me abt this fic or svt or rarepairs in the comments (below) or on my twitter (link also below). love you lots ;v;

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! lmk what you think!
> 
> hmu on my twitter: @yoongcheolie


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